


The Last Straw

by pherede



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Chastity Device, Forced Marriage, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Virginity, Virginity or Celibacy Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-31 04:31:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1027259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pherede/pseuds/pherede
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kili is the second son; his brother is destined to rule, and he to be given in marriage to whoever brings the greatest political gain.</p><p>To preserve his value, he was fitted with a chastity belt once he came of age, and he's worn it ever since.</p><p>(written for a kink meme prompt)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Straw

It's common knowledge, and Kili is used to being teased. Well, sort of. Dwalin calls him Locknuts from time to time, usually when cuffing him on the head for some prank or mischief, and when he's grumpy some of the older dwarves will smirk and speculate that his belt must be chafing.  
  
The belt is worse than anything anyone can say to him. It's well-padded, as befits a member of the royal family, with chalcedony chips and a thin scrolling filigree that have become as familiar to his fingers as his own skin. Sometimes he forgets that he's wearing it, which only makes it worse when he suddenly remembers.  
  
In all the history of Erebor, there is no record of a dwarf wearing the belt for more than ten years. Some only wore it for months; some wore it long enough that they were described as weeping at the altar when their betrothed accepted the key.   
  
Kili has worn it for thirty years, almost half his young life, since the morning his nursemaid found his sheets stained and sticky and his mother sent for the locksmith from Dale. He remembers thinking it would be a piece of jewelry, an honor.  
  
His uncle showed him how to lean when he needed to piss, how to pour soapy water over himself to clean his urine from the enameled filigree. "Just take it off," suggested Kili, and his uncle had laughed.  
  
A year later Fili had learned how to pull himself off, and wasted no time in showing Kili how it worked. Watching his brother grunt and rub at his _pud_ made Kili wonder why on earth anyone would do such an undignified thing, and also why Fili hadn't been fitted with a belt like his own.  
  
A year after that, as Fili carelessly jacked himself off in the shade of their favorite tree and came across his own thigh without even looking up from his book, Kili learned envy.  
  
He tried very hard, and when his cock was half-hard he could sometimes shift just enough to rub it against the filigree, and though he could never quite bring himself to spilling he thought that someday, perhaps, he might. Until Fili told someone, concerned no doubt for his brother's chastity, and the belt was opened by the locksmith for his first refitting.  
  
An extra link or two, to admit his growing, muscular waist; a small adjustment, to open the Y behind his ballocks so that he could do his business more easily (though this had the effect of spreading his ass open so that he felt terribly vulnerable), to add dangerous outward-facing spikes that would deter any would-be penetrators; and a loose ring with dull, inward-facing spikes around his cock, the purpose of which he could not discern until he stiffened that afternoon and felt the bite of metal force him back to quiescence.  
  
The price of keeping his family's last asset safe; the cost of the most valuable thing left to Erebor's royal line. Kili is full-grown now, if not terribly mature, with no suitable matches on the horizon, and he has not come once in all his life.

It lends him a certain desperation, and he thinks that must be what draws Ori to him. The Nadad-Ri, as his mother would have called them, are only the first of many dwarves who have begun to assemble under his uncle's call, and while his brothers debate with Thorin over alliances and connections, Ori spends his time making shy, tentative approaches to the younger dwarves of Thorin's house.  
  
He watches Kili chop wood and practice swordfighting with round eyes and parted lips. It looks like hero-worship. Kili has been down this road a hundred times, though, with various maidens and lads in all the towns where his family has lived. Ori, like the others, lives in a society of resigned and patient dwarves, and Kili's frustration probably sings to him of victory and regained glory. Even if it has nothing to do with battle, and everything to do with the chalcedony belt.  
  
But where the others were hungry for revolution and romance, Ori is friendly and sweet and good, and despite himself Kili finds peace in the evenings with the fireplace in his room burning low and Ori reading to him from one of his endless tomes while Kili drinks Ori's tea and tries not to drowse. It's good; it's quiet.  
  
He even lets Ori touch him, eventually, a thing he has never been comfortable with before; sometimes his skin is hypersensitive, as if all his nerves are on edge, and the ring bites gently against his stubborn flesh with the faintest friction of skin. Ori is wonderfully conscious of these times-- he knows, of course, how can he not-- and at other times he is simply warm and still and cheerful, a weight of comfort against Kili's side. They fall asleep in the same bed often enough. There's no harm in it; if the chalcedony belt couldn't protect him, Kili wouldn't need to wear it.  
  
But over time the comfort becomes less, or perhaps Kili is changing, and even with his head lying in Ori's lap and Ori's careful fingers threading through his tangled hair, his frustration is too great to bear. He wants to bite; he wants to kick; he wants to-- it's not that-- he just...  
  
"It's very hard, isn't it," murmurs Ori, the first time he's even alluded to the belt, and Kili snarls a bit.  
  
"I just want to be allowed to-- to _feel_ ," says Kili. "I wouldn't risk my uncle's position for a fling. I just want to _touch_ it."  
  
"Dori says," replies Ori doubtfully, after a few moments, "that m-- masturbation is degeneracy."  
  
"I wouldn't," insists Kili. "I would just... touch. I see Fili do it all the time, and he... he breathes hard, he turns red, he bites his lip so hard it swells up. I want to feel _that_. The... the feelings part." He doesn't have words for this. It seems unfair, as if even his tongue has been locked away.  
  
Ori's fingers pause in his hair, then resume their stroking. "I would like to see you feel that," he admits, his voice quiet, as if he dreads being overheard.

Kili feels his chest tighten. Ori's fingers on his scalp turn into a torment, a maddening tease. He can picture Ori's face, though he knows he has never seen the expression Ori must be wearing: high color on his cheeks, eyes low and wary, a hint of tension around his mouth.  
  
He has not, until now, let himself feel these things. No one has been close enough; he knows it will only end in misery.  
  
But misery he already has, and plenty of it, and Ori's fingers are gentle and sure, and he twists in Ori's lap and looks up to find Ori's face just as he imagined it.  
  
"Maybe you can spy on me when I'm married," says Kili, bitter and wry, wanting very much to kiss him and knowing that will only make it worse. "Until then, I don't think I _can_ feel it. Feel... turned on, I mean. I can't get hard in this thing."  
  
"Oh," says Ori, his cheeks very pink, and his hand strays from Kili's hair to his throat, tracing up and down until Kili whimpers.  
  
He lets Ori touch him like this for what seems like an hour, fingertips tracing skin; he takes off his shirt, and lets Ori feel his chest and belly and shoulders, though he knows he's playing with fire. His cock is half-hard, just enough to feel the dull bite of metal. He knows he can't take more.  
  
So when Ori starts to play with his nipples, rolling his thumb across them and pinching them a little, Kili draws back, because he's suddenly hard and it _hurts_. Which helps his erection to fall a little bit as soon as Ori's hands are off him, but does nothing to still the pounding in his balls and the burning heat in his belly.  
  
"Too much," he says. His face, however, betrays him, and Ori's face only falls for a moment; then Kili looks at Ori's hands, and at his mouth, and they are kissing, they are face-to-face and closer and Kili's lip is caught between Ori's teeth and Ori's hands are roving across his back, Ori's hair is falling in Kili's eyes, Ori's breath is hot on his cheek.  
  
He's going to die and he knows it. He can't make himself stop; he can't keep himself from getting hard, and every time his cock flinches from the pain he's only back again a second later, whining from frustration.  
  
It's not for a full minute of kissing that he finally realizes he's whining into Ori's mouth, and that Ori is moaning back, his eyes dilated hugely, Kili's desperation driving Ori's own desire. It's not fair; so Kili pulls at Ori's tunic until he gets the idea and takes it off, and they both strip awkwardly, pausing to kiss every few moments, until Ori is naked with only his hair for covering and Kili is naked except for his belt.  
  
Kili wants to see this. He's seen Fili a thousand times, his own brother, and not really much cared-- but Ori, whose mouth tastes like tea and whose hands are so careful, he needs to see Ori arching and panting and coming with a hunger that almost exceeds his own agony, and he reaches--  
  
But Ori bats his hand away and pulls him down beside him, beginning a slow and thorough examination of the belt.  
  
"Your cock is lovely," he says, in his tentative way. "It's a shame to lock it up, where I can't get my tongue on it."  
  
Kili can't quite believe what he's hearing. Thunder seems to be rolling in his head; he wonders if he's hallucinating, or dreaming. Ori touches the belt, and the skin around it, and then he leans closer and licks, careful and precise, along the edge of the chain over Kili's hip.  
  
The heat of it, the wet pressure, almost stops Kili's heart. He bucks into the cage, into the spiked ring, and the pain is almost pleasure. "Please," he says, because he can't ask for it to stop but he knows he needs mercy.

"You're so beautiful," says Ori in reverent response, and his hands wander, and his tongue follows. He spreads his palms across the planes of Kili's back, and Kili shudders; he tongues Kili's nipples, bites them, bites his sides, kisses his hipbones. His fingers follow the lines of Kili's thighs; he presses his face to the cage itself, and his breath pours hot against Kili's cock, which is red-purple and swollen and throbbing. Ori puts his hand against the cage and rocks it, which is blindingly uncomfortable, as the friction Ori is expecting is transformed by the belt into cringing sharp pressure.  
  
And Kili lets him. Lets him work a single finger beneath the rim of the cage to touch, very slightly, the tight wrinkled skin of his long-denied ballocks; lets him wet his finger and trace the pucker of his hole until Kili can only rut helplessly against the bed and gasp: "Too much, too much."  
  
Ori's eyes shine with low and wicked light; his cock is so hard it must be painful, springing up free and unfettered to bounce a few inches from Ori's belly. "I rather like you this way," he says, and his spit-slicked finger does not retreat, and he presses inward until the sharp spikes are nearly breaking the skin of his knuckles and Kili is twitching around his fingertip in a sobbing paroxysm of pleasure and despair.  
  
"Please," says Kili again, and because he knows it is the only thing that can save him: "Please, can I watch you come?"  
  
The finger withdraws; the overstimulation subsides, though Kili's skin feels raw against the soft sheets; and Ori rolls over beside him, full-length, sweet eyes turned honey-dark and soft lips bitten. "It would be rude of me," he says, in a tone that begs _please I need to_ just as all of Kili's body is screaming the same thing.  
  
"Please," says Kili, half-strangled in his own urges, so Ori takes himself gently in hand and strokes twice, slowly.  
  
"Faster," insists Kili, rubbing his own hand against his belly, mimicking Ori's movements; and as Ori begins to stroke himself in earnest, Kili rocks his hand against his belly, strokes from navel to the chain of the belt, trying to imagine this touch against his own cock. Ori groans and his back arches, his mouth opens, and Kili can't bear to watch him come after all so he kisses him instead, mouth open to swallow the sweet sounds of Ori's release, whining and begging his own frustration into Ori's gasping throat.  
  
He can't come down afterward, as he's accustomed to. He wants to cry; he wants to crawl out of his own skin; he wants to fuck something, anything, until it bleeds or he does, until those fucking iron spikes simply bite through his cock and end the agony entirely. He wants to kiss every part of Ori and watch him come a million times and fuck him and be fucked by him.  
  
He shakes in Ori's arms until sleep overtakes him like a smothering cloth and his cock subsides in its bindings at last, his suffering replaced with anxious dreams.  
  
And when he is asleep, Ori lies thinking for a while, then slips from their bed and goes to his own travel-chest, unopened since his brothers brought him here. Within it, from beneath his second-best trousers, he retrieves the marriage contract to which his brothers bound him when they sold Thorin their alliance, and the husband-ring meant to signify the new ownership of his body, and on a red silk ribbon, a lovely filigree key.


End file.
